Ilena holds up her hand. “I’m sure of all of that.” She pauses, because if this isn’t her child, then this also isn’t really her marriage. She treads lightly. “I don’t doubt that you will always put her first. But when we decided to do this, we forgot one thing.” Or purposely ignored. Or fooled themselves into thinking didn’t matter. The wedding photo should have been a sign. The black suit, the traditional gown, like they were trying to prove something to everyone, including themselves. “This baby needs parents who love her and who love each other. But she also needs parents who areinlove.”
His eyes meet hers. No confusion, just agreement, which makes sense as it was him who’d called what they have a friendship.
“We didn’t think so,” he says. “Not when we decided this.”
“We were wrong.”
“Were we?”
Ilena places her hand on his. “I think we both know theanswer to that. We do care about each other. And there’s an attraction.” She gestures to her stomach. “But maybe we aren’t a perfect match. It’s statistically probable that we are in some reality, but here...”
“Something will always be missing.” He closes his eyes, briefly, before centering back on Ilena. He’s both disappointed and relieved. “We’ll never live this down. Your mother being right.”
“My mother?”
“She’ll be upset, naturally. The baby being a girl will help. Still, she will never let us forget that she thought we weren’t focused on what truly mattered in life when we made this decision.”
Her mother touting what? Love? Except nothermother. This version of her mother, the one who smiles and believes in love and wants to celebrate her granddaughter even though she lost her husband. Maybe it’s the way this version of her mother lost him—to a blocked artery or brain aneurysm or whatever it was that took him. Instead of a decision he made to live another life.
The Rebecca Cohen Ilena grew up with did not turtle after her husband left her. Instead, she fanned like a peacock, inviting everyone to look at her, secretly hoping for a sympathetic head tilt or patronizing “Howareyou?” so she could lash out and cut them off at the knees. She was fine. Her family was fine. But she wasn’t. They weren’t. The love was gone.
Ilena sees her, sighing over the newspaper at breakfast, sitting in the garden, the steam from an untouched mug of tea swirling into nothingness. Were there openings Ilena missed? Could she have tried harder? Was there something she could have done to help her mother appreciate the family she had instead of being pissed off about the one she didn’t? Did the Ilena of this world help her mother heal in a way that she never even thought of doing?
The idea steals Ilena’s breath. Some things are genetic and some are learned, and the combination makes Ilena question if she missed openings with Jonah too. If she could have prevented him asking her for a divorce. And her saying yes.
Ilena looks at Felix, tucking the life she could have had with him and this child into a corner of her heart. “We’re going to co-parent the crap out of this kid.”
He laughs. “That we are.”
“It’s probably best if I do stay here with Mallory for a while as we navigate through this. But I need to ask you a favor.”
He nods.
She presses her palms into her thighs. “Help Mallory with this investigation.”
His eyes widen. “Is she a suspect? I know the news is insinuating but—”
“Honestly? I don’t know. But, and because we’re still married I can say this, she should be. Maybe we all should be.”
“All...” His throat bulges with a swallow. “Whatever you need. And if it’s criminal... I can find someone.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need to. But I wanted you to be prepared, just in case.”
After more talking and tea—Felix likes green best—Ilena closes the door behind him and sits at the dining room table with a pen and paper and Harley at her feet. Once Ilena returns to the reality that is hers, she won’t have any control over what this version of herself does. The only thing she can do is describe what it feels like to be loved.
And suggest she look up that boy she once met at the MIT-Harvard mixer: Jonah.
Ilena sets down her pen. She rolls her suitcase into Mallory’s guest bedroom, a bright shade of yellow instead of the cream from home. She heaves the suitcase onto the furry pink poof in the corner and opens it to get her toiletries. Freshening upto do anything, including a collision of parallel universes, is something she learned from her mother. Not the worst thing to pass along, really.
Beneath her toiletry bag, Felix has packed the onesie with the cupcake on it. She picks it up and holds it to her chest. She’s saying goodbye to so much here, including the mother who bought her baby this, the mother who pressed on after the death of her husband, who seems to be finding joy in life even when it’s hard. A lesson Ilena wouldn’t mind learning. And then maybe passing along to her own mother.
She reclines on the bed, nestles her head against the bright floral pillowcase, and makes a call.
“How’s my baby girl?” her mother says. “Hmm... I guess I need to start saying that in the plural.”
“Mom,” Ilena says, nearly breathless at how her mother sounds the same and different at the same time.
“What is it? Is something wrong? Is the baby—”
